


The Ties that Bind Us

by the_bonny_wordsmith



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Daemons, F/M, Mind Palace, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Return, Red String of Fate, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bonny_wordsmith/pseuds/the_bonny_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In present day London, the world's only consulting detective and his dæmon Raiserra wrestle with mind-numbing boredom in the wake of their return from the dead. Little do they know that through the doors of their St. Barts lab, a pair will arrive whom it is quite safe to say are unlike any person or dæmon either of them have met.<br/>A new nemesis looms on the horizon, people trade in wheel upon wheel of secrets, and betrayal from some quarter seems inevitable. Through it all, it is impossible to know how well a certain consulting detective will be able to deal with the sudden and enforced absence of something he grows to hold dear and whether it will all end without an explanation.<br/>A BBC Sherlock x His Dark Materials crossover, set in our world, but with dæmons and creatures from Phillip Pullman's fabulous Trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Someone New

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Republic of Heaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/465527) by [Blind_Author](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blind_Author/pseuds/Blind_Author). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 21st Century London, Sherlock and his dæmon Raiserra are bored. That is, until a young woman whose dæmon is absent, but is accompanied by a panserbjørne enters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will notice certain similarities between my choice of dæmon and those in Blind_Author's "The Republic of Heaven" fic that I was inspired by, and even the first letter of their names...I'm afraid it made a deeply strong impression on me. Mind you; all the credit to them for writing such an amazing fic!

 Sherlock sighed as he peered down the microscope at the slide he was examining. He was bored out of his brains. No murders had happened, and nothing else that _had_ happened really warranted his attention. He hadn’t heard from Lestrade for weeks, and even Mycroft seemed to have decided to have a break from irritating him. It was a sign of the degree of his boredom that he was almost half wishing that Mycroft _would_ appear, smugly irksome as usual, to attempt to bully him into taking a case (not that Sherlock would _ever_ have admitted this to his brother). He didn’t even need to be at Barts for a case – it was just a distraction, and a very poor one at that.

It had been three and a half years since the Moriarty affair; six months since he had revealed himself to John. _Three years!_  The exhilaration and fear that it had generated had been enough to keep him going for several months, but then he had needed to get back to the business of testing his intellect. However, despite his own readiness to begin solving crimes once more there was his destroyed reputation to deal with, and the fact that John had not been ready to know that he was still alive barely months after his supposed suicide. His patience had been severely tested, but it was for John. As to the matter of his recovered reputation, he preferred not to think about it, for he was sure that he owed Mycroft a favour regarding it – only Mycroft could have organised for the editing of both public and private data bases across not only the United Kingdom, but also the world.

Recently however, just when he was getting into the swing of things (and even John’s blog had begun to re-establish itself back to its former prominence – although most applicants were primarily thrill seekers wishing for an audience with the man whom some still regarded as a deranged psychopathic murderer), cases fell flat. Of course _some_ people still came to him with their irritatingly mundane tales of woe, but he would never stoop so low as to taking one of _them_. He didn’t leave the house for anything less than a seven, and most of the cases he had been approached with barely even warranted a rank. Sherlock sighed and considered returning to the flat and blackmailing John into Cluedo (not that he would enjoy it – the game was ridiculous and the rules made no sense whatsoever – but watching John’s frustration was fairly amusing), or even the more desperate possibility of texting Lestrade a demand for involvement in a case. He shook his head; that was one level he was not willing to stoop to, but soon it would be at least a month since he’d had a decent case.

“We need more milk.” He said to Raiserra absently, his eyes flicking momentarily towards his mobile where it lay on the table. The black European otter dæmon rolled its dewdrop bright eyes, picking up instantaneously on her human’s unspoken question.

“Of course he will.” It was true, John never forgot things like that, and if he did, Histali would always remind him. Sherlock removed the slide with unnecessary venom, nearly cutting his finger on a chipped corner and hissing slightly while Raiserra whipped her tail about, her whiskers quivering. He unbuttoned and pulled up his sleeve and examined the quilt of nicotine patches along his forearm, wondering whether he was imagining that they weren’t working or whether they really weren’t. He’d been through two entire boxes already that week and it wasn’t even Wednesday. He made a mental note to remind John to get some more, along with the milk. Patches, or not, however, he was on the verge of shooting up the wall of their flat again from sheer boredom he knew, and although John had become increasingly inventive with hiding his gun since the last dozen incidents – aided no doubt by Histali – Sherlock always managed to find it in the end, albeit with the help of Raiserra’s sensitive nose.

Sherlock rubbed a crease between his brows angrily. If he couldn’t find the gun this time, then he would just have to –

“No!” Raiserra’s voice was irate, having followed the train of Sherlock’s thoughts in the way that only she could. “The drugs make me act like a loon. No.” Sherlock glared at his dæmon for a moment, then huffed, picking up the nearest slide and clipping it in with a sharp clack. He pressed his fingers together momentarily, steepling them against his chin. If he couldn’t use the morphine or cocaine, then it would have to be the– “And _no_ cigarettes.” Raiserra interjected adamantly. “We’re not that bad yet.” Sherlock glared at Raiserra.

“ _I need stimulus, Raiserra!_ ” Sherlock spat, his face contorted with a mixture of fury at his dæmon’s obstinacy, and desperation.

“Wear more patches.” The dæmon fired back, expression seemingly unperturbed, although, she too was feeling the effects of the mind numbing boredom that inhabited her human, as well as the keen desire for action and intellectual challenge. Sherlock glared at the otter for a moment, severely regretting just how stubborn a conscience she could be, though few would ever believe such a fact.

“Fine.” He stormed sullenly. “But one more week, and I’m getting the cigarettes; I don’t care what you say.”

“Not when you’ve paid off all the dealers in a two mile radius around Baker Street to refuse you.” Raiserra muttered.

 

Sherlock had been studying the new slide for only a few minutes, conversation between him and Raiserra having subsided into a testy deadlock, when an awed looking Molly pushed open the doors and led in a young woman that Sherlock was unfamiliar with.

He spared her the most fleeting of categorising glances; Sherlock had never had much time for people, especially not for females (who either loathed him on sight or fell into adoring and thoroughly tiresome raptures), and most of all not for _ordinary_ people. Had he been in a better mood, he may have dredged up an ounce of common cordiality, and maybe even the enigmatic charisma that he could so finely control, but he was still furious and battling the boredom that was slowly liquefying his brain.

She was pretty enough, he supposed, but pretty wasn’t interesting. To be sure there was an innate roll in her hips as she entered that he knew would have attracted most men like bees to honey (contrary to John and Histali’s beliefs he was possessed of awareness and knowledge of the chemical and physical attraction between people, although he chose not to indulge in such messy and unnecessary interaction himself), not to mention the generous curves of her figure, but other than that, she was quite ordinary. Sherlock sighed rudely.

Raiserra, who had flowed along the bench and up Sherlock’s arm to settle like a heavy sleek black stole about his shoulders, was staring at the visitor intently, sniffing hard, their fuss temporarily forgotten.

“Where’s her dæmon?” She whispered softly into Sherlock’s ear, her whiskers brushing against his cheek. Sherlock glanced around, his interest piqued very slightly; if Raiserra couldn’t see or smell the woman’s dæmon then he certainly wouldn’t spot it in the room.

“She may be a witch or simply a separated human,” he murmured, his brain automatically supplying the facts that verified the rarity of either such occurrences. As the words left his mouth a slow muted thudding came to them. Sherlock glanced up, his eyes widening with a surprised frown as they took in all the rattling glass and metal instruments arrayed about the room. An earth tremor? In _London_?

The young woman looked entirely unperturbed by the apparent seismic activity, and instead turned to the doors, holding one open, a now positively stricken looking Molly half hiding behind the other, her rock ptarmigan dæmon Nalkin huddling inside her labcoat, his feathers already whitening for the coming winter.

Sherlock and Raiserra’s eyes were trained on the door, narrowed in identical expressions of speculation. What came through the door shocked both of them enough that their eyes widened with pure astonishment.

An enormous white bear, large enough to carry two full grown men on its back with ease, its head dipped low to allow it under the lintel of the doors, padded majestically in; its enormous slightly serrated black claws clacking against the floor. Its shaggy white pelt was thick, and its small black eyes swept the room, alighting on the pair and scrutinising them with an intensity that dwarfed even the inspections of the consulting detective and his dæmon. It was a panserbjørne; an armoured bear.

Sherlock and Raiserra’s minds felt as though they had been set spinning on an axle like a disused dynamo suddenly pressed into use. Panserbjørne were a good deal less common than they had been a hundred years ago, for the ice surrounding the archipelago Svalbard that they lived on had been steadily decreasing, and it took a good deal more ice to support the weight of an unarmoured armoured bear than a normal polar bear. Some few settlements had been built in other areas, but the projects had more often than not foundered, and they had become something more of a last resort, for they were to the taste of neither the humans nor the bears; affinity between the two certainly had not grown with the passage of time. That this woman had a panserbjørne as a companion marked her out as an individual of exceptional qualities, and certainly a person fit and worthy of Sherlock’s scrutiny, for none of the bears hired themselves out as mercenaries as it was below their pride, and there were few panserbjørne-human friendships, and even fewer debts owed by the bears to people. Sherlock wondered what it was that tied these two together.

“Thank you, Molly.” The young woman said, her tone rang with authority for all her youth, and it was an evident dismissal – albeit a kindly one. Molly seemed all too eager to flee – most people couldn’t stand the sight of a human unaccompanied by their dæmon, it was unnatural, and a separated human accompanied by a panserbjørne was enough to strike fear into the heart of anyone –, and practically ran from the room, not even pausing to pull the doors to. The young woman smiled towards the bear, both amused and apologetic at once to Sherlock’s curiosity, then closed the doors. Sherlock frowned at the odd expression, then whipped back to the microscope, studiously disinterested, his face wiped clean of any emotion, although his mind was buzzing like an enraged hornets nest.

It was not until all this was done that the young woman turned to face Sherlock for the first time. She moved forwards, gliding gracefully and effortlessly, the great bear at her side, still rattling the glass implements with every step of its great padded paws. Both man and dæmon’s curiosity was piqued, although only Sherlock was concealing it. Raiserra had stretched to her fullest extent towards the woman and bear, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed deeply at the air, claws dug into her human’s suit, her entire body coiled tense. Sherlock was vaguely irritated at Raiserra’s behaviour, given that it contradicted his own exterior semblance, but was vaguely aware that she was trying to figure something out.

The woman and her strange companion remained a few meters away at the opposite end of the bench, as if aware that their presence was unwelcome, for all the interest they generated. Raiserra froze rigid after a few more moments, and was urgently kneading Sherlock’s shoulder through his suit. The woman was too close now however for them to whisper unheard, so Sherlock ignored his increasingly agitated dæmon; besides which, the woman had begun to speak.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes, I believe.” The woman said, her eyes resting upon Sherlock, who was still resolutely staring down the microscope, the hint of a smile in her slightly aristocratically accented voice.

“As you see.” Sherlock replied tersely. He glanced up and perfunctorily swept her up and down, taking in her well-groomed appearance, the ink stains on her right hand, the disciplined posture with which she held herself, and yet the relaxed stance. “Where is your dæmon?”

The woman did not seem at all put off by his total lack of conventionality or manners, or even that it was he asking after her dæmon and not Raiserra. She surprised him by laughing – a very John-like thing to do; Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, as _you_ see, he is right here.” Her twinkling eyes flickered towards the panserbjørne, and Sherlock noticed a slight shift in her stance so that she was leaning towards her dæmon, still smiling slightly. The change in body language, although minute, altered the entire aspect of the way the woman and bear presented themselves, and it became clear that what had previously been negative space between the two, was merely a construct to ease the minds of observers. A great deal was always to be learnt from the form in which a person’s dæmon settled, and whilst a separated human was disconcerting and a panserbjørne companion frightening, neither were anything compared to the hostile terror that a panserbjørne dæmon would inspire. Even Sherlock could feel some primeval part of his brain starting to tick over with alarmed warning signs which were blaring that flight was the only means of survival in the face of a person with such a dæmon, and Raiserra was controlling and venting her own instinctual concern by constantly gripping and releasing the shoulder of his jacket. Sherlock felt the adrenaline rising in his blood stream and the increase in his heart rate and breathing speed, his pupils dilating and his vision narrowing as his hearing dulled slightly. Brutally he quashed the still tingling section of his brain, forcing himself to calm and regain control over his compromised senses.

“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Raiserra muttered sullenly into her human’s collar, her anxieties slightly calmed by the composure of her human. Sherlock barely registered his dæmon’s fearful yet sulky irritation, but instead turned his wide eyes on the woman’s dæmon. At first he had intended only to inquire where and what her dæmon was, and why she had an armoured bear for company, then get rid of her if she was of no further interest. Now that he knew the panserbjørne to be a dæmon, however, the dying embers of his interest had been rekindled to a blaze, and the sheer size of the beast stunned him. It had to be the largest dæmon he had ever seen, for its head nearly brushed the ceiling, though it was standing on all fours, its great shoulders level with its human’s head. Even in children playing games, it was uncommon for any of their dæmons to even attempt such a monstrous size. He wasn’t even aware that it was possible for dæmons to take the form of a panserbjørne once settled.

Raiserra, apparently taking offence at being ignored by Sherlock, slithered down his arm, and crept swiftly along the table towards the bear dæmon like a sinuous ripple of black silk, her nose working once more. Sherlock frowned slightly, aware that Raiserra was not merely motivated out of pique with him, for he could feel the curiosity radiating from her thoughts, and to move towards such a dæmon was the actions of a lunatic. It was uncommon for Raiserra to show such marked interest in other people or their dæmons – regardless of how interesting they were – preferring to be as aloof and distant as her human, although a panserbjørne was certainly out of the common way; John had been one of the few exceptions. The woman _had_ to be special.

The two humans said nothing, both of them watching their dæmons intently.

Raiserra stopped at the very edge of the table top, her webbed forepaws wrapped around the edge of the table in a fierce grip, her neck stretched to its utmost towards the woman’s dæmon. The woman and her dæmon exchanged a single glance, the giant bear blinking one black eye lazily before it turned to regard Raiserra once more, dipping its head so low that it was practically sitting, the end of its wet black nose rippling, a warm breath blowing out across Raiserra and ruffling her short dry fur.

Then, the great bulk of the armoured bear dæmon shifted slightly, compacting and tensing, the movement somehow threatening. Sherlock was barely allowed a moment of confusion in which his mind worked furiously to uncover why the action was so unsettling, before everything was blotted out in a wave of terror as the bear leapt towards Raiserra.

Just one paw would be enough to crush the now incredibly tiny and fragile looking otter dæmon, let alone an entire panserbjørne. Raiserra let out a terrified whistling screech and scrabbled back along the bench as if she could actually escape the heavy heaving bulk that was flying towards her, moving towards Sherlock, whose hand automatically reached out to shield his dæmon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, if you like this, or any of my stories, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	2. Getting to Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets to know his intruder in true Sherlockian fashion but doesn't make much headway. His interrogation is interrupted by John...multiple times, and a revelation is made.

In the blink of an eye, the bear was no longer there, and instead there were two otters facing each other on the table, both black colour variants. The woman’s dæmon was looking at Raiserra, its head tilted to one side, blinking extraordinarily long lashed eyes in a decidedly flirtatious and feminine manner. Raiserra, having recovered from her momentary fright, was hissing and chirring ferociously at the other dæmon from behind the comforting barrier of Sherlock’s hand, the fur along her back raised, her fangs bared in an angry snarl.

For as much his own reassurance as Raiserra’s, Sherlock rubbed his dæmon along her sinuous length, and although Raiserra continued to spit at the woman’s dæmon, both felt the waves of relief that the contact produced.

Sherlock rounded on the woman, his heart still beating madly, about to demand an explanation of her. She had been regarding the two dæmons, particularly her own, with a somewhat amused (if resigned) expression. Upon registering Sherlock’s furious scrutiny she turned and smiled apologetically, moving until she stood barely an arms-width from him their dæmons between them on the table to their sides. He could smell a faint waft of a light fruity perfume.

“Sorry if Atalias frightened you two. I really can’t apologise enough for his behaviour. He…has a bad habit of changing forms without warning.” She glanced down at her dæmon once more, who had turned to glance teasingly over its shoulder, much as a coquettish woman might. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in their analysis of the woman and darted down to the dæmon as, as if to prove the point, a pair of splendid but small wings sprouted from Atalias’ black furred shoulders.

Raiserra, her curiosity overriding her irritation that she had actually been frightened by this strange dæmon slowly moved forwards, clambering over Sherlock’s hand and sniffing the air along the edge of Atalias’ right wing, but not touching him, her tail draped over Sherlock’s palm. Her human, however, turned his thoroughly scrutinising gaze upon the young woman.

She was dressed in a simple enough outfit of jeans, a plain white V-neck t-shirt that was largely obscured by dark blue knitted wrap around top with long sleeves that widened at the wrist, over which she wore an expensive black wool trench coat, and a pair of rather startling heeled boots. Sherlock knew at once that the clothes were good quality, the coat and boots were severely expensive, and all kept in a pristine condition that belied their evident wear as he could see in the scuff marks on the shoes, and occasional catches in the fabric and weave of her shirt and coat. Clearly she was careful with her clothes, even though she evidently had sufficient money to regularly buy new ones at their full and most expensive price – as indicated by the slim rectangular bulge of her wallet, probably stocked with credit cards, from an inside pocket of her coat; very unusual given the materialistic standards of society, and her evident youth.

Her figure, although slim, curved substantially; her generous hips balanced by an equally abundant, and yet not oversized, chest. However, for all the slightness of her waist, there was a suggestion in the firmness and size of her denim-encased thighs and calves – both of which were too large for a conventionally slim person – that hinted at latent but honed muscular power. Her slim long fingered hands with well manicured nails were larger than the average woman’s, but reflected their usage and strength, for all the smoothness of the skin. This was excepted by a pair of twin scars; each located in identical positions at where the wrist and her hand met, the only difference being that each sloped away from the other at a diagonal parallel to her thumb and pointing to her pinkie fingers. Again, the woman lacked conventionality, the strength of her body contrasting with her build and mode of dress.

Her entire body was devoid of adornment, save for a pair of jade bangles (one white and the other green) one on each hand which were visible beyond the end of her sleeves – which explained the oriental hint in her features –, and a set of large drop pearl earrings that dangled from shaped silver chains attached to small diamond studded hoops – again elaborating on her wealth, but also indicating a classical and slightly conservative taste.

Her balance, also, appeared spectacularly out of the ordinary, for she was wearing a pair of outlandishly shaped and toweringly thick-soled heeled boots. The back of leather-wrapped heel ought to have met the ground at the usual angle reserved for such shoes, but instead boomeranged in towards the front of the shoe before coming back out so that the woman’s entire weight was balanced on the four-inch tall section of the sole that existed beneath the front of her arch and the ball of her foot. Her toes were capped in a scythe of suede that gave way to flowered black lace, which in turn was attached to shining leather that began at the back of her heel and ended at the knee after encasing the rest of her leg and shin in tightly laced leather, the holes of which were surrounded by a continuous rippling strip of suede. The very strangeness of the shoes tended to the impression that she herself had some eccentricities, the least of which were in her taste in shoes; a curious characteristic in one who seemed so unusually moderate, and even more so in a young person.

His observations had taken the work of a few moments, but Sherlock frowned, his eyes darting further up her body in his continued assessment. Her face was framed by luxurious black-brown locks that rippled someway down her back, Sherlock guessed, and rested in rich dark coils about her pale, swan-like neck and defined collarbones, a slight fringe shading part of one eye and a cheekbone. Her skin was pale, granted, but there was a different glow to it that he had rarely observed in members of the general populace or otherwise, and had seen most often in fine bone-china displayed in the windows of home-décor shops and expensive tearooms.

She was not a conventional beauty. Her eyes appeared drawn on her face, the details of their shape and lids almost perfunctory strokes of the brush of a minimalist artist, but their colour was as intriguing as her dæmon. They appeared to fluctuate slightly from a soft fawn to a dappled hazel, and had unusual hexagons of dark green forming a striped and many-pointed star-shaped pattern about her pupils. Sherlock found the patterns mesmerising, and it was not until they creased slightly in a smile that he realised he had been staring, somewhat vacantly into them for a few moments.

Instead, he turned his attention the rest of her face. Her nose was slightly squat, the nostrils flared and round, and Sherlock, limited as his knowledge of fashion trends was, knew that it was not the sort of nose that cosmetic surgeons recommended to their clients. Below her nose, however, were a pair of lips that, while generous, were not wide, but were certainly voluptuous. Sherlock’s brow furrowed once more as he stared at the young woman’s lips, not even noticing when their corners quirked in a grin as he determined whether their redness was a work of nature or artifice.

Having deduced that the shade was indeed their natural colour, Sherlock returned to himself and glanced up to find the woman staring at him just as intently as he had been staring at her, a slight smile pulling her cheeks up and crinkling her unusual eyes. He wasn’t sure if anyone had ever really smiled at him in that way, and was not sure why she was. Sherlock turned back to the microscope, blindly removing the slide and putting another one on. Automatically he adjusted the various lenses, not seeing or thinking of what he was doing, but rather mulling over what his inspection had yielded, and the reason behind her smile.

True, he had scrutinised her in greater detail than he usually would – though it had only been for a few moments –, but she was _interesting_ ; as interesting as John and Histali had been – more so, in fact, for whilst wolf dæmons were uncommon, a dæmon that could change its form when it ought to have settled was unprecedented. His curiosity itched to discover the reason behind why her dæmon had not settled (despite the fact that she was obviously well past the time when he should have), and how it could change into forms that it shouldn’t have – the panserbjørne for one, and as for growing wings at will; it was unheard of. An entirely scientific phenomenon. As far as he knew there was little likelihood that it would ever happen again. But _why_? Why had it happened to begin with? He puzzled over the thought for a moment, then turned to the slightly alarming fact he had discovered in his prolonged examination of the woman. He couldn’t read her. He could deuce certain values and mannerisms from her clothes and behaviour, but her recent or extended past history remained hidden from him. It was just like _the woman_. What could have–

Sherlock’s musings were interrupted by a polite cough, and he looked up to see the young woman regarding him with a vaguely amused expression, eyes twinkling once more. A long disused and much forgotten part of his brain decided very quietly that it rather liked the expression.

“Yes?” He enquired with as much hauteur as he could muster; people never told you what you wanted if you appeared too interested.

“I would put in a slide that has actually been prepared, if I were you.” The woman commented lightly, glancing pointedly at the slide he had loaded. Sherlock pushed the clamps off and inspected the slide. It was indeed a blank.

Hurriedly he put it to one side, and coughed, picking up another that was definitely prepared. A faint dimpling danced in the woman’s cheeks. Sherlock, oblivious to her amusement, returned to examining the slide, and recommenced his train of thought.

As Sherlock continued his silent inner monologue, the young woman stood and waited patiently, regarding the eccentric consulting detective with amiable patience and a hint of amusement, her wicked dimples reappearing every now and then; it was a fairly easy guess what was preoccupying his mind. Her dæmon, Atalias, shook his coat, and the wings and long eyelashes vanished. Raiserra, now prepared, if not used to the suddenness of the change, did not jump, but continued her own inspection of her fellow dæmon, disregarding its mirror image state to herself, her dark eyes narrowed.

 

It was not long before Sherlock, having concluded his thoughts at their usual screaming pace, turned his swivel chair to face the woman before him, frowning slightly and staring at her assessingly, totally disregarding social etiquette as per usual. He had taken considerably longer than he usually would in considering a person.

“You’re twenty-eight.” He stated, the words sounding more like an accusation that anything else, and certainly not like a question. The woman’s gentle grin widened, the dimples flashing out once again.

“Yes.” She confirmed, apparently aware that Sherlock at once required and did not want her to do so.

“You’ve been through puberty.” Sherlock continued, demonstrating a greater than usual lack of tact that John would have severely remonstrated him over had he been present.

The young woman, however, laughed. “Yes; many years ago.” Sherlock frowned, thought for a moment, and turned to directly address Atalias.

“Why haven’t you settled?” His nettled expression betrayed his irritation at having to ask for the answer; considering it to be equivalent to asking for help. The woman appeared entirely unoffended by Sherlock’s direct address to her dæmon, but instead turned to watch him as he turned away from Raiserra and leapt at her arm, his claws digging into the weave of her coat sleeve as he clambered up to settle about her neck within the curve of her collar beneath the glossy fall of her hair.

Raiserra, appearing to have developed a nigh on obsessive fascination with Atalias, mirrored his movements, watching the dæmon’s every move from her own identical place on Sherlock’s shoulders.

Atalias rolled his shoulders for a moment, kneading at his human’s shoulder. “We don’t know. When we were younger we expected I would settle, but I never did. Our family was confused why, but we never went to see anyone about it – after all, there was nothing actually wrong with us.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered between the woman and her dæmon.

“But you show no signs of being ostracised from society.” The woman’s expression relaxed, having become somewhat set, and she laughed.

“That would be because we never were – at least, not because Atalias had never settled. We just pretended that he had. He always became a black panther whenever we went out so people would think nothing was out of the ordinary.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. A panther dæmon was not exactly ordinary, and while it shed some light on the young woman’s character, the illumination was minimal; it hinted at the exotic highlights to her nature – which he had already determined – as well as giving off the same aura of danger that one received when faced with a wild predator.

“Did your twin’s dæmon settle?” He asked sharply; this much he _had_ managed to gather. The woman’s face tightened for a moment, but her dæmon remained impassive, save for a twitch of his thick tail.

“My sister didn’t live long enough for her dæmon, Antharlia, to settle.” She replied, and although her tone was not curt, there was a certain clipped manner about her words. Sherlock nodded.

“Her gender was the same as her dæmon’s, then?” He enquired, rising to new levels of tactlessness. The woman, however, took it in her stride, concealing the slight shade of the discomfort she had previously felt at the subject without any sign.

“Yes.” She replied. “She was the older one.” Sherlock nodded absently.

“Yes…I know.” He murmured. Then his eyes cleared once more. “Had you begun to wonder about what you would settle as?” He addressed Atalias once more.

There was a pause as Atalias rolled his shoulders once more – his equivalent of a shrug – and appeared ready to answer, but was interrupted by the clap of the doors as John swung unceremoniously through them.

“Sherlock,” he began as Histali padded in after him, pure white and enormous, “I got your text and I got here as fast as I –” His words died away as he noticed Sherlock’s companion. “Oh.” He turned, surprise plastered across his face. “Sorry; I didn’t realise you were – that I was…erm…interrupting.” He moved forwards and extended his hand. “John Watson, and this is Histali,” he gestured to the oversized white wolf that was his dæmon. The young woman smiled graciously taking his hand with what Sherlock noted to be an unusually firm grip for a woman; John too had noticed, he could tell from the momentary surprised twitch of his eyebrows and the slight pursing of his lips, although throughout the exchange Sherlock couldn’t help but curl his lip in disdain as John reciprocated the smile, his pupils dilating slightly. The fact that she took in Histali without batting an eyelid – either at her form or size – and her behaviour towards John was not peculiar in any way, was of negligible interest to Sherlock, for he had not expected her to be alarmed by a wolf dæmon when her own was so uncommon as to be singly unique.

“Ariadne Mordecai and Atalias; pleased to meet you.” She replied politely. Sherlock judiciously filed away the information, noting also the mythic Greek origins of her first name, and the Biblical Hebrew ones of her surname. Histali moved forwards, and Atalias dropped to the floor from his human’s shoulder in a fluid movement. The two sniffed, Histali’s bright gold eyes staring into Atalias’s black ones, then briefly touched noses. Sherlock frowned, as did John. Histali usually reserved physicality in greeting for dæmons she liked, and never did so on first meetings. If the young woman had noticed their confusion however, she did not give any indication of it but continued speaking, addressing John with an easy smile. “Never mind the interruption. We weren’t really having a proper conversation with Sherlock.” John snorted, seeming to take Ariadne’s use of Sherlock’s name as an indication that they knew each other on some level other than barely-introduced-strangers.

“No…well…Sherlock and Raiserra tend to have inquisitions, rather than conversations.” He replied, Histali whuffing through a doggy grin. Ariadne smiled, her dæmon baring its fangs in a grin from the floor. Sherlock’s face froze and he glared at John as Raiserra glared at Histali.

“Yes, I think we could agree with you there.” Ariadne replied, flicking a wicked grin at Sherlock, the dimples flashing out briefly again. He blinked, slightly startled at the expression, but ignored it.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I am possessed of ears.” Sherlock cut in icily. The pair turned to face him, and as the woman smiled gently at him, Sherlock inexplicably found his irritation draining away. John moved closer, and glanced speculatively at the woman.

“I suppose you must get this a lot, what with your name, and everything, but you remind me greatly of –” John began, but Sherlock, his irritation with his flatmate remaining, coughed pointedly.

“I expect you want to know why I asked you to come here.” John frowned, but, noting his friend’s sharpness, and the reflection it gave of his temper, made no comment.

“‘With all possible haste’ if I recall correctly,” Histali amended soberly. John nodded.

“So what is it?” He asked. “Did Lestrade call?” Sherlock gazed unfathomably at John for a moment, then turned back the microscope.

“I wanted to remind you to get more milk.” John’s eyes practically bugged out, and, but for Ariadne’s presence, it was obvious from his expression that he would have indulged in the exercise of turning the air blue; it was obvious from the moment you saw her that she was not the sort of woman anyone would use language like that around without good cause. Histali’s eyes narrowed, and she vented her feelings via a peculiar coughing snort. Raiserra prodded Sherlock, who paused, then glanced up at the opposite wall. “Oh yes, and another dozen packets of nicotine patches.” He added, returning to the microscope.

“Right.” John replied, grinding his teeth. That being done, Sherlock removed the slide from the microscope, and faced Ariadne with what might have been alarming suddenness.

“How old were you when she died?” He fired at her. John gasped slightly at the rudeness, and Histali’s ears went back, although unaware of the true depth Sherlock was plumbing, the fleeting nature of Sherlock and Ariadne’s relationship dawning on them.

Unfazed, Ariadne replied, “Twelve.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock turned away, his fingers steepled. John mouthed airlessly for a moment although a very slight rumbling of disapproval was emanating from Histali’s chest.

“Sherlock!” He exclaimed when at last he had breath enough. Sherlock frowned, his pensive eyes moving to John.

“Don’t interrupt, John.” He remonstrated. John swore.

“Sherlock, you don’t just ask people questions like that!” He turned apologetically back towards Ariadne and Histali’s tail was between her legs. “I’m sorry; Sherlock’s tactless with everyone.” Sherlock was staring, slightly startled at John, Raiserra having taken her eyes off Atalias long enough to gaze bemusedly at Histali’s subserviently apologetic behaviour. Ariadne smiled gently and waved the apology away.

“Don’t worry; it’s nothing. I’ve grown used to Sherlock’s…directness.”

“Oh please! Don’t mind me!” Sherlock muttered, flinging his hands into the air before swivelling his chair and turning his back on Ariadne and John. John shrugged apologetically, and Histali wagged her tail in a conciliatory manner towards Atalias who reared up on his hind legs with a grin, his thick tail thumping amicably against the floor. Raiserra sniffed, and tucked her nose into Sherlock’s collar.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, brows drawn together, then spun around and stared hard at Ariadne, who unflinchingly bore and returned his gaze.

“Why are you here and what do you do?” He finally asked. Ariadne regarded him fleetingly, her head tilted on a slight angle, and when she spoke it was slowly, the care with which she was choosing her words evident.

“Well…I…dabble in various areas; politics, the law, acting, various martial disciplines, conservation…” John’s brows rose in polite interest. Sherlock seemed singularly unimpressed. Ariadne paused for thought. “It’s all rather complicated.” She smiled sunnily, expression apologetic, disregarding the incredulous expression Sherlock gave the microscope. John frowned and scratched his head, feeling a niggling revelation hiding from him in the back of his mind; he’d seen that smile somewhere before.

“The television,” Histali prompted him. Ariadne’s bemused eyes flickered between John and his dæmon, her willow leaf eyebrows raised in polite confusion and interest.

“I’m probably completely wrong about this,” he said with a slightly embarrassed smile after a moment’s struggled recollection, “but are you related to the new prime minister? What’s her name…? I mean, of course you’re not _her_ ,” he said with a laugh, “your dæmon’s different.” John paused and stared at Atalias, seeming to realise for the first time that he was an identical to Raiserra. He glanced questioningly at Sherlock and Raiserra who ignored him. John shrugged and turned back to Ariadne who was glancing down at Atalias with a peculiar expression.

“We have a new prime minister?” Sherlock asked, still staring fixedly down the microscope, Raiserra peering over his shoulder. John turned in exasperation to his friend as Histali grinned, her red tongue lolling out over her sharp white teeth.

“Do you actually pay no attention to the papers? It’s been broadcasted everywhere; she’s the first woman since Thatcher – you _must_ have seen something about it!” John asked exasperatedly. Sherlock snorted.

“If I did, then I deleted the information. Besides, you know I don’t watch _TV_ or read the papers; they’re full of rubbish. It’s extraneous data. Anything that doesn’t help me solve the cases is just transport; I thought I made this clear to you on our first case together.” John threw an apologetic and exasperated glance to Ariadne, his hands on his hips.

“And the fact that we have a new prime minister is extraneous data?” He asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock changed slides without glancing up.

Ariadne glanced between the bickering flatmates, her expression amused – she and her dæmon exchanged identical grins. “Ah…Mycroft didn’t tell you then.” She said; it was a sentence calculated to interest. Instantly Sherlock’s head snapped up, and John spun around.

“What didn’t Mycroft tell us?” Sherlock asked shrewdly, his eyes narrowed.

At the same time John asked, “Not told us what?” Ariadne grinned at Atalias, her dimples on full display, who was baring his teeth in a similar fashion back at her from the ground.

As Ariadne turned back to the men, Atalias began to grow in size at an alarming pace, his white fur shortening and flushing to a brilliant tawny gold, his legs lengthening and becoming more muscular, and his tail thickening and growing longer. Finally a lion the size of a pony stood shaking its mane at Ariadne’s side, by which time she had finished saying; “I _am_ the new prime minister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. An Unusual Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, the Prime Minister, Mycroft and their dæmons gather in 221B Baker Street. Ariadne proves slippery for even Mycroft to handle, and a new case looms on the horizon.

In response to Atalias’ changing, Histali leapt before John, her teeth bared and her hackles raised, a low dangerous growl reverberating around the room. Sherlock’s interrogative expression had become severely intrigued. John, however, was completely unprepared for Atalias’ change, and had stepped back slightly, shocked, hands automatically moving to his waistband where his gun would have been, had it been on him.

“What just happened?” He asked, giving Atalias a wide-eyed glance before turning to stare in askance at Sherlock and Ariadne.

“Atalias hasn’t settled.” Raiserra answered automatically, her eyes fixed on the dæmon. John’s brows furrowed, and in front of him Histali relaxed slightly, although her hackles remained raised, lips pulled back from her teeth – for in his abnormally large form of a lion Atalias outsized her, unusually oversized as she was, and presented enough of a threat if he and his human turned out to be hostile.

“Is that even possible?” John asked. Sherlock did not even deign to reply, Raiserra rolling her eyes. John turned back to Ariadne, regarding her warily. “Why?” Ariadne shrugged as Atalias moved closer to the still cautious Histali, regarding her with eyes as yellow as her own.

“That is a question we have been asking ourselves since it happened.” She replied with such confused and pained earnestness that after a moment Histali finally relented, and touched noses with Atalias. Glancing up from the dæmons, Ariadne sighed briefly. “And now we must go.” Sherlock frowned at the way she said the words.

“‘We’ being all of us?” John clarified. Ariadne nodded.

“Mycroft would have sent ‘Andrea’, but I wanted to meet you two, so I said I would; he seemed happy enough to oblige me.” Her mischievous grin and dimples appeared once more. “Come on, then.” John glanced towards Sherlock questioningly, expecting him to protest, or to at least ask why they had been summoned or where they were going. Sherlock, however, got up readily enough, stripping away the half dozen patches from his arm and flinging them into the bin with a fierce smile.

“Something exciting!” He murmured. Atalias smoothly changed into the panserbjørne form he had taken when they arrived, barely startling either John or his dæmon this time, as Sherlock pulled on his coat, gathering Raiserra in his arms from which she clambered up to his shoulders, settling about his neck.

John shrugged, Histali whuffing slightly, as they marched out on the tail of Atalias and his human.

 

Once outside John and Sherlock paused, glancing about to a taxi to hail, but there was very little traffic about, the road devoid of vehicles of any kind. The strip of parking spaces in front of St. Barts was deserted, except for an Aston Martin that was a shade of green so dark it appeared black.

Ariadne began making her way along the road, turning up her collar against a chilly wind that had picked up, and glanced back when she realised that Sherlock and John weren’t following.

“Come on!” She called, Atalias having safely changed into the more inconspicuous form of a lynx when no one was watching and trotting at her side. “I’m driving.” Sherlock and John exchanged a glance and began to follow.

“Where’s your car?” John called over the wind, zipping up his jacket.

Ariadne stopped again, by now having drawn level with the Aston. She indicated it with her head. “This one.” She said with a grin, pulling out a set of keys and pressing a button. The lights flashed, and there was a muted click as the doors unlocked. John gaped; Sherlock merely looked vaguely irked.

“It’s…kind of expensive just to drive out here, isn’t it?” John enquired as he opened a passenger door to let Histali leap in. Ariadne shrugged.

“I bought it a while ago; I like fast cars,” she said with a wicked grin, “besides, this one isn’t _too_ flashy.”

“‘This one’?” John asked as he climbed in after Histali, the un-amused Sherlock having already entered from the other side with a roll of his eyes.

Ariadne was already in the front seat, her belt done up and Atalias, now in the form of a tamarin monkey, was clinging to the headrest of the empty front passenger seat, regarding the men and their dæmons around the side of the leather with a grin. Histali was sitting on the floor, leaning against John’s legs behind Ariadne, whilst Sherlock, his arms folded, was behind the front passenger seat, Raiserra now in his lap. Ariadne’s mischievous green eyes glanced up at them in the rear-view mirror. “I collect them.” Her eyes disappeared for a moment, returning only after a muted roar of the engine as she started the car. “Hold on tight,” she laughed, then pressed the accelerator.

 

*

 

“You know, for a prime minister, you drive rather fast,” said a rather shaky John as he clambered out of the sports car outside 221 Baker Street. Ariadne grinned apologetically as she locked the car.

“Sorry. Normally I wouldn’t, but Mycroft cleared the roads temporarily, so I thought ‘why not?’ Afterall,” she continued as they let themselves in and made their way upstairs, “what’s the point in having a fast car if you don’t get to speed in it?” Sherlock passed a hand through his hair, his face slightly paler than usual.

“Why indeed,” he murmured.

 

Upstairs they found Mycroft standing with his back to them, looking out the window, his raven dæmon Eredia on his shoulder. He turned around with an insincere smile. “Little brother. John.” He greeted, then turned to Ariadne. “Prime minister.” Sherlock ignored the courtesy as usual, hanging up his coat after depositing Raiserra on his chair, and John gave a terse nod, moving to sit at the table, Histali sitting bolt upright at his side. Ariadne, however, smiled, Atalias hanging off her lapel still in his monkey form.

“Mycroft; thanks for the clear.” Mycroft’s smile widened slightly, although his cold eyes remained isolated from the expression.

“My pleasure. Although I am afraid all racing will have to stay on courses now.” Ariadne nodded regretfully.

“More’s the pity. But…hey ho; you can’t have everything.”

Sherlock, who had deposited himself in a seat and taken up his violin, whipped the bow and set it against the strings, evidently intending it as a threat.

“Why are you here, Mycroft?” He asked, fixing his brother with a gimlet eye. Mycroft turned, eyeing the violin warily.

“I required a place free of potential bugs and spies to talk freely.” He replied. John looked up from his laptop screen, surprised.

“So you came to Baker Street?” Histali asked his question for him, just as incredulously as her human. Mycroft’s unpleasant smile returned, reading the inference Histali and John had made about his own security arrangements accurately. Eredia clacked her beak with vague irritation.

“As you see.” Mycroft replied.

“And why do you need to talk freely?” Sherlock enquired with an air of professional boredom. Mycroft turned slowly, and regarded Sherlock with an expression of vague distaste.

“We require your involvement on a case.” He said stiffly. Sherlock turned away and scraped tunelessly at the violin. “It’s a long case, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued when Sherlock had desisted, “and I dare say even you will be interested in it.” Sherlock stared insolently up at Mycroft.

“What is it?” Mycroft and Eredia glanced pointedly at Ariadne, and Sherlock followed his gaze.

“It’s like this,” began Ariadne, sitting down opposite Sherlock in John’s chair with Atalias now as a puma at her side, his head in her lap, one of her hands casually resting on his head and absently fiddling with his ears. “Ever since Moriarty blew out his brains we’ve been organising a scheme to discover who would be taking over, and any close subordinates; afterall, being the head of all organised crime has to be a coveted position. Five years ago we arranged for information regarding policies and the support held by them to be copied and taken from all major parties running for government, and for the leakages to continue being fed to us since then.”

“Without permission.” John stated. Ariadne glanced at him.

“Just so.” She replied solemnly. “With it, we formed a new party that contained all the most supported polices and ideals that we had taken from the other parties. Where policies that held large amounts of votes conflicted, we reformed them to have the best of both worlds, or ran with whichever was best. The result of this was the strongest party running for government in years.” Ariadne glanced at Mycroft. “It has taken us a few years for the entire operation to get up and running on its feet, with the first couple of years acting as a dry-run to smooth out any kinks we might have missed.”

“It wasn’t until this year that the plan became fully operational, with the election of Ariadne as prime minister.” Mycroft continued. John frowned.

“I’m sorry but I don’t see how this will help you.” He said, staring between Mycroft and Ariadne. Eredia clicked her beak impatiently.

“She’s a puppet, John.” Interjected Sherlock, acidly. “A puppet for whatever is the latest of Mycroft’s schemes.” John frowned, and Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, as Eredia ruffled her feathers.

“Ariadne is not merely a celebrity and celebrated conservationist that happened to become prime minister. First and foremost, she is an operative for the secret service, and as such, is a rare commodity in MI5.” Replied Mycroft gravely. Across the room Sherlock’s eyes flashed up to assess Ariadne once more. “She is probably our only agent who has a highly public identity, due to her…activities over the years.” Ariadne grinned slightly at the faint trace of dissatisfaction that laced Mycroft’s tone.

“Mycroft owes me a favour, and although he disapproves of what I’m sure he’d like to call my ‘antics’, he can’t really get rid of me.” Ariadne said, darting a mischievous glance at the poker stiff elder Holmes brother who was radiating strong waves of disapproval. Sherlock actually cracked a grin. Mycroft coughed delicately.

“They have not been without their uses, however.” He murmured. “And with or without your… _antics_ MI5 still needs you.” Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened his posture, addressing the men once more. “Ariadne was popular with the public before we began the campaign, and we needed her image to make the plan succeed. If she can meet with Moriarty’s replacement, or someone close to them, then, using various…tactics, Ariadne will be able to make her way into their confidence by feeding them scraps of highly confidential information, giving the impression that she is actually corrupt, and willing to work with them. This in turn will allow us to learn more about the inner workings of their system, and eventually bring about their total removal.” There was an expectant silence as John and Mycroft stared at Sherlock, who examined the strings of his violin, Raiserra curled in his lap, her eyes half closed.

“You want us to find out who Moriarty’s replacement is.” He said, still not looking up.

“We do have a list of people we suspect, but we require your…help.” The last word stuck in Mycroft’s throat.

“It hardly seems worth the bother,” Sherlock said, letting a trace of disdain seep into his words. “Besides, I thought something as simple as this; even _you_ might have managed to deduce it.” Mycroft smiled unpleasantly and Eredia couldn’t restrain an irate shuffle of her wings.

“Oh _really_ , Sherlock? I thought you would be leaping at a chance to exercise the grey matter, considering your recent… _inactivity_.” Mycroft stressed the word delicately, studying his fingernails as his dæmon preened one wing. Sherlock’s face snapped up and he locked eyes with his brother, both of them glaring. Raiserra hissed slightly from Sherlock’s lap. Eredia gave a derisive and triumphant caw, ruffling her feathers, her chest swelling.

“Boys.” The soft chiding murmur issued from Ariadne’s grinning mouth, her green eyes twinkling roguishly, though her smooth dark eyebrows were raised expectantly. Both men were startled out of their contest of wills to gaze in affronted surprise at the prime minister. Their dæmon’s too were shaken out of their opposition, and gazed blankly at the unusual interruption. Atalias’ mouth was stretched in a wide and fearsome grin, displaying all his white sharp teeth. John had to stifle a snort of laughter, whilst Histali covered her head with her forepaws in an attempt to prevent herself from laughing. “We all know Mycroft doesn’t do fieldwork,” Ariadne said softly, “and we all know that Sherlock needs cases. For all your disparity as siblings; you both require the other on a professional level at least.” Ariadne swept to her feet in a smooth flowing motion. Everyone in the room knew the matter had been settled. “There is an affair we need to attend to this evening,” she continued, walking to the door with Atalias slinking along at her side. She paused, gazing evenly at Sherlock and John, her eyes slightly narrowed in an assessing, calculating glance, which Sherlock analysed. “I will meet both of you at your mother’s home; Mycroft will fill you in on the details.” She flashed a brief smile around the room, then glided out, her hips rolling. They all remained where she had left them, standing and sitting, listening for the sound of the front door shutting, then the dull slam of the car door, and the roar of the engine.

John slowly turned to face the Holmes brothers. He swallowed and Histali wagged her tail a little.

“Well…she’s quite some woman.” He said eventually. Sherlock and Raiserra’s eyes were still fixed on the door, slightly glazed over. Mycroft abruptly sat, Eredia taking off and landing on the table, ruffling her black plumage.

“Yes, she is.” He said, his eyes as preoccupied as Sherlock’s. “And she’s our prime minister.” He murmured, almost uneasily. John let out an uncomfortable laugh.

“Not quite what you’re used to dealing with, Mycroft?” Histali asked with a doggy grin.

Mycroft’s brows twitched upwards as he stared at his umbrella, spinning it slightly. “Indeed.” He murmured. Raiserra slid out of Sherlock’s lap, clambering up onto the arm of his chair, where she proceeded to sit and scrutinise Eredia, who was nonchalantly preening her feathers and ignoring her fellow dæmon. Sherlock broke out of his lethargy, and snapped about, whipping his bow as he strode over to the mantle piece.

“What are these details, what is this ‘affair’, why do we need to be there, and why are we meeting at Mummy’s? I want information, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was as hard as his calculating eyes. Mycroft, unruffled once more, smoothed down his suit and regarded his brother. Eredia fluttered back to his shoulder and proceeded to ignored Raiserra and her human completely, although she watched the rest of the room alertly.

“You and John will be accompanying Ariadne to an event we have organised for the Mayor of London to host; Ariadne will have all your invitations with her when you meet her at Mummy’s. It’s black tie, and evening suits will be provided for you to change into, again at Mummy’s. You will be there to assess people, Sherlock; we have invited individuals we know to be essential to the criminal underworld, although they are not aware that we know what they are; they are to be the bait.” Mycroft’s expression had become unusually clear of the vitriol it usually possessed when he regarded his brother, and he stood. “Ostensibly it is a gala dinner, but we have ensured that all our suspects were added to the guest list. We believe Moriarty’s replacement, or at least, a representative of the replacement, will be attending tonight. There are files,” he indicated a stack of manila folders on the desk with the tip of his umbrella, “on all our suspects, as well as a list of all the other guests attending.” Sherlock barely spared the pile a glance, but John wandered over and idly leafed through a couple of the files.

“Why are we meeting at Mummy’s?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft paused, staring at his brother for a few moments.

“Ariadne and Mummy are acquainted.” He replied stiffly. Eredia shuffled her wings slightly, her feathers puffing up slightly. Sherlock frowned slightly, and Raiserra thumped her thick tail. Mycroft gazed solemnly at his brother. “You do realise the importance of this evening, Sherlock.” He stated, holding Sherlock’s gaze unflinchingly. His brother’s eyes narrowed briefly, then he nodded seriously. Mycroft stepped back. “Good.” He nodded once, his gaze covering all four occupants, then proceeded out of the room.

It was not until the front door slammed for a second time, that Sherlock’s eyes began to dance with an expression that was known all to well to John and Histali. Raiserra was trembling with excitement, writhing about on Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock gave a great leap in the air, accompanied by an uncharacteristic whoop of delight.

“This is _perfect_ , John!” He cried, spinning around the room. “A proper case at last!” John sighed as he sat and leant back in his chair, his hand resting on Histali’s head. It was something of a relief to know that Sherlock and Raiserra would be occupied once more, and that he would not have to continue to hide his gun, but it did mean, inevitably, that he and Histali would be dragged around and across London, perhaps even the entire country, as well as be subject to sleep and food deprivation until the case was solved. He restrained a slight groan. Mycroft had assessed it to be a long standing case, which meant that, even for Sherlock, it would not be over in a matter of days or even weeks. Histali gave him a consoling lick on the hand. With a grunt he heaved himself off the chair.

“I’m making tea,” he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	4. Preparations and Mummy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Histali meet Sherlock and Mycroft's mother for the first time and discover she is not at all what they expected.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day in a state of high elation, and put the time to good use. He commandeered John’s help into reading all the files that Mycroft had left, and then furthering the information through his own investigations. Before all else was to be attended to, however, Sherlock, using John’s laptop as his own was in his bedroom, conducted a thorough internet sweep on Ariadne, Raiserra standing on his lap, her forepaws on the table between his hands. All that both had said about her was true, according, not only to Wikipedia and IMDb, but also the half dozen fan sites that Sherlock could bear to trawl through, and those official sites that had been set up in relation to her conservation, law and acting activities, as well as her prime ministership. None mentioned Atalias’s ability to change, and, unusually, there was very little to be found about her family.

Several of the suspects Mycroft had listed Sherlock instantly removed with various snorts of disgust and disdain, whilst others he reviewed and furthered his knowledge of. Some of the civilian guests were added to the list of suspects as well, and their backgrounds thoroughly researched.

 

At five o’clock the doorbell rang, and Sherlock and John, accompanied by their dæmons made their way downstairs to the sleek black car that was waiting for them.

For once they were unaccompanied, save the driver, and in almost no time at all they had left London and had passed through the wrought iron gates to the Holmes’ ancestral property.

The mixed pebble drive crunched beneath their feet as they got out of the car, and made their way up to the imposing front doors. John and Histali, who had never even heard tell of this place, let alone met the infamous “Mummy”, were in awe, stunned by the sheer size of the mansion that they now stood before. Sherlock and Raiserra seemed as severely composed as ever, Sherlock buttoning up his jacket as he exited the car, and pausing to smooth back his curls with one pale long-fingered hand as he moved up the steps to the doors, barely batting an eyelid at the ornate fixtures of the building, while Raiserra only pawed at her whiskers a little.

John was not prone to self-consciousness, but he couldn’t help smoothing his hair a little, and wishing that he might at least have been given some forewarning by his flatmate.

They had barely stopped before the great double doors, when they opened, and a beautiful woman stepped out and enfolded Sherlock in a hug with a cry of delight. Her long straight hair was loose and raven black, almost with a bluish sheen to it, and her slim figure was fetchingly clad in a smart bronze dress that somehow set off her mulberry coloured eyes as though they were in spotlights.

“Sherlock!” She cried affectionately, embracing him warmly. “It’s been so long!” John was surprised to see Sherlock reciprocate the clasp of her arms, having expected him to recoil. Histali, however, was not so surprised, having scented a similar smell on the woman as that on Sherlock and Mycroft, and assumed their blood-relationship. Both man and dæmon, however, were wondering why neither Mycroft, nor Sherlock had ever mentioned that they had a sister.

By the time Sherlock had been released, John had recovered his composure, and smiled as the woman moved to greet him, smiling pleasantly. “You must be John, and Histali.” She said warmly at both and shaking John’s hand.

“John, Histali; this is Mummy.” Sherlock said formally. John’s eyes widened with surprise, and Histali gave a small yelp.

Sherlock’s mother laughed, however. “Call me Veriana. I would introduce you two to my dæmon Polithus, but he’s away at the moment.” John and Histali allowed themselves to be ushered in as waves of surprise cascaded over them; this was Sherlock’s mother, yet she looked barely thirty; her dæmon was away; and she behaved nothing like either of her sons. She was a witch. John and Histali had worked with some witches during the war – although for the main part they had kept themselves to themselves in their own battalion separate from the humans, aware of the dislike they tended to engender in them, though John and Histali had no qualms with them; they would fight and die, just like any other soldier. Once they had realised the truth of the matter, they were completely at ease with Veriana; besides which, it explained a few things about Mycroft and Sherlock.

Warm and welcoming, Veriana quickly brought John, Sherlock and their dæmons in over the threshold and into the enveloping warmth of the wood panelled front hall. It was quite delicious, for the night air was distinctly chilly with a sharp nip to it. John only hoped that their night’s activities wouldn’t involve chasing criminals through London’s backstreets.

They took off their coats, and Veriana ushered them out of the front hall and through a side passage into a spacious and comfortable lounge, although because of its styling John felt it would have been better called a parlour or drawing room. There was a large carved marble fireplace at the opposite end of the room, and the various items of furniture were more often than not upholstered with velvet and thoroughly antique looking. Sherlock flopped down across a chaise lounge, Raiserra leaping down from his shoulders and curling up on a plump velveteen cushion with a little squeak of delight. Veriana’s eyes twinkled at the sight.

“I’m sure you thought I would have forgotten your cushion, Raiserra,” she said, smiling. Raiserra did not reply, but squirmed into the cushion with a pleased whistle. Sherlock made a slight face at the spectacle his dæmon was creating, but chose to attempt to ignore it, instead reaching an impossibly long arm out to the round table beside him and taking the metal box that sat on it. Transferring this to his lap, John watched as Sherlock opened the box, his face set with an expression of intense anticipation, then grinned as he viewed the contents.

John and Histali could only gaze in utter astonishment as Sherlock began eating the contents of the box with what was obviously meant to be an attempt at dignified gusto.

“Sherlock’s always had a weakness for dark chocolate made by our sisters in Spain.” Veriana said to John, laughing as she caught his stunned expression. “Please, sit.” She gestured graciously towards the array of chairs, and together man and dæmon moved over to an armchair. “Tea?” She asked as he sat, moving over to a table against the back wall, atop which sat a splendid silver tea service. John nodded.

 

“So,” John said, once he and Sherlock had finished their tea and several biscuits, “what do we do now?” Veriana smiled from where she stood by the fire, stoking it.

“Ariadne should be arriving soon in the car that will take you all to this gala. In the meanwhile, she sent a pair of evening suits ahead for you two to change into for when she arrives. They’re upstairs – John, yours is in the first room on the right.”

Without hesitation, both men stood and retreated upstairs, which was just as grand as the lounge and front hall had been. Everywhere there were wood panels or thick embossed wallpaper, and the walls were hung with various paintings and rich tapestries. John and Histali felt a little out of place, though Sherlock and Raiserra were just as blasé as ever, and the vague discomfort only increased when they entered the guest room – if it could be called that.

A grand four poster bed hung about with red velvet curtains with carved posts and headboard took up a small area of the vast room, standing on a small dais. A silk brocade chaise lounge stood against the far wall at the edge of a silk Turkish rug, on either side of which were a pair of large bay windows complete with gold velvet curtains drawn to reveal cushioned window seats and darkness beyond. A writing desk and chair stood against the wall the door was set into, and a capacious Edwardian wardrobe stood facing the foot of the bed. In the corner between the left window and the wardrobe there was another door that Histali padded over to, poking her head in. She wagged her tail.

“Green marble everything, John!” She said enthusiastically, her voice echoing sufficiently for John to guess the bathroom was just as big as the room itself. “And gold taps.”

John walked dazedly over to the edge of the bed’s dais, and idly fingered the protective cover that encased the suit, which was laid out over the covers, a pair of highly polished black shoes in the corner. “Well, it’s certainly something, eh, Histali.” He said with a slight laugh as his dæmon joined him.

“Nothing like the war, or the flat.” She agreed. John laughed properly at that.

“I can see where Mycroft gets his taste in décor, though.” He said. “Just imagine being a kid growing up with all this,” he sat on the edge of the bed, Histali’s head on his knee, idly running a hand through her fur as he thought. Oddly enough he could picture Sherlock as a little boy with an unruly mop of dark curls, rushing around the house in shorts with scabby knees, a pirate’s hat on his head and brandishing a wooden sword as he laid siege to Mycroft’s bedroom. In a strange way, the grandeur of the house was very much in keeping with Sherlock, and in another way, utterly incongruous.

John shook his head with a laugh, and began to dress.

 

Sherlock strolled downstairs, hands in his pockets wearing the perfectly fitting evening suit and white dress scarf with the same attractive indolence as he wore his suits; it sat perfectly on him. Raiserra, wound round his neck, was chittering away in his ear.

“Her eye is as good as ours, you know.” She said. Sherlock nodded. The moment he had put on the evening suit he knew his deductions about Ariadne’s parting glance had been correct – as he had been sure they would. How she had managed to have two perfectly tailored evening suits ready in six hours was more incredible.

Sherlock strolled into the lounge once more, where Veriana appraised him with a mother’s eye. She smiled and nodded approvingly. “You look very smart,” she paused, then turned and took a small brush out of a box on the mantel piece. “Raiserra?” She asked. Sherlock nodded as his dæmon let out a shrill chirring whistle of pleasure, taking the brush and sitting in the nearest chair, Raiserra circling in his lap with impatient anticipation.

He was still brushing her when John and Histali came in, John looking a little self-conscious, though Histali was dancing along by his side, her tongue hanging out. John stopped in the doorway a little awkwardly. “Well?” He asked, his eyebrows raised.

“You look marvellous!” Replied Veriana with genuine warmth. “Does Histali want a brush down?” She indicated Raiserra, who was still happily gargling in Sherlock’s lap as he brushed her. Histali’s mouth, already in a large grin, widened even more so that all of her teeth were on display.

John let out a laugh, and nodded. “If you have a spare brush.”

 

The men and their dæmons were only just finished when the door knocker sounded. Veriana left to greet the guest, and after a few moments filled with the muffled sound of feminine voices in the hall, during which Raiserra prodded Sherlock into sharing his chocolate with John, the doors opened again, and Veriana returned, Ariadne and Atalias sweeping in behind her.

She grinned at the sight of them. “Well don’t you two polish up nicely,” she said with a laugh. Ariadne was quite something to look at herself. She was clad in a floor length white fur coat that completely obscured whatever it might be that she wore beneath, the fibres of which were pearled with water droplets, as was her hair, which was simply elegant, with some waves and curls blow-dried into it and retrained on one side with a glittering hair pin. “I’m afraid it’s raining outside, but the car is near the door, so we should be fine.”

There was a slightly awkward silence. John’s brain was still stuttering from her appearance, and Histali, lying on the ground, had covered her snout with her paws to prevent herself from laughing at her human.

Sherlock was rapidly cross referencing her appearance now with that of earlier in the day, finally coming to the gratifying conclusion that she had made as little effort then as she had now to look in any way outstanding, and that the result was scintillating. Raiserra’s attention was given over solely to gazing at Atalias, who, in his lion form, was more than magnificent, and was analysing his every movement.

“Shall we?” Ariadne asked with a slight smile, indicating the door.

 

The car was a standard limousine, and as it rolled smoothly out of the driveway and back towards London, Sherlock relaxed. It was a case, just like any other, but with higher stakes. He was in his element once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, again, I must repeat my dues to Blind_Author. Their work has settled as a canon of its own in my mind, hence John working with Witches during the war, as well as Veriana being a witch herself (utterly canon there).
> 
>  
> 
> Also, if you like this, or any of my stories, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, Like my Facebook page, or Follow my Twitter :)  
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	5. Two-Way Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne and Sherlock take it in turn to play their respective games, and it is hard to tell who is better...

The car pulled up outside a building in Whitehall that John was fairly sure was the Banqueting House. His brain filled with memories of school history lessons, informing him that this had been the location of the execution of Charles I as Ariadne and Atalias led the way through the gold inlaid black iron gates and along a short strip of red carpet between burning pillars to the entrance. A pair of security guards flanked the doors, and as they passed by, Ariadne giving them a brief nod, Histali received appraising glances from them, their Doberman dæmons remaining professionally unflustered and alert, even though she significantly outsized them in both height and bulk.

Ariadne and Atalias were clearly familiar with the building, and let the way through to an area labelled the Main Hall. John and Histali followed, impressed by the grandeur of the venue and wondering over just how much Mycroft had had to pay to organise the event (as well as marvelling at the lengths that the elder Holmes brother was willing to go to simply to flush out Moriarty’s replacement). Sherlock and Raiserra followed, aloofly unimpressed, although John and his dæmon could see the gleam of excitement that lit their eyes; it was a gleam that meant they had caught the scent of the chase, and neither John nor Histali ever saw it without feeling at once apprehensive and exhilarated.

The group parted before they entered the Main Hall, the doors of which were open, spilling out the audible sound of talking and laughter from beyond. Ariadne left for the women’s cloak room, and Sherlock and John for the men’s, though not before Ariadne gave them their invitations with the injunction to go in once they were ready.

Sherlock and Raiserra instantly began analysing the room and its occupants, finding their suspects amongst the throng of chattering people and flaunting dæmons, and gauging all that could be deduced from them. They ignored the magnificence of the architecture, and the care with which the layout had been crafted and decorated with, barely sparing a glance for the ceiling paintings by Rubens that so many of the guests were staring up at.

John was feeling vaguely uncomfortable in the setting; it reminded him forcibly of school reunions, although much grander, and he and Histali were being given a wide berth by all the other guests. It was not until a woman with a wolverine dæmon – who Sherlock informed him was the Tatar delegate Anastasiya Navarykasha for Ukraine and her dæmon Buritri as he glided past, busy seeing as many people in the room as possible – approached him, and began to talk with him, feeling similarly avoided due to her dæmon, that John loosened up a little and began to enjoy himself.

 

Sherlock was midway through kulling his list of prospective suspects when he noticed a faint ripple of movement in room. Surfacing from his thoughts, he let his eyes follow the direction that almost every person’s face was turning in, to look towards the entrance. Ariadne was standing in the open double doors, Atalias at her side, gazing about the room with a generous smile on her face that seemed to make everything brighter. She had removed her coat, and the dress she was wearing was nothing short of stunning. It was a deep shade of magenta, dark enough that it might be mistaken for burgundy, and he knew the colour had been chosen carefully; striking in combination with the colouring of her skin and hair, but not so bright as to be tasteless or overly celebratory. The deeper shade of the colour gave her the appearance of solemn beauty, as befitted her position as Prime Minister. The cut was long, with a slight train to it that added a sense of occasion without overly impeding the functionality of her movement, and the lace overlay dulled the gleam of the satin beneath, heightening the elegance of it. Although it was figure-hugging, Sherlock knew that it had been very deliberately tailored to hang more loosely than it ought to, minimising the sensuality of the dress, and so too that of the wearer.

Sherlock watched her as she and Atalias proceeded into the room, noting with some amusement the cordial sincerity of her greetings as she progressed from person to person, regardless of their importance, ensuring they felt distinguished and important, though the regality of Atalias’s posture and stiff formality of his greeting to the dæmons retained the distance and respect that they were to afford himself and his human. He could see very clearly why Mycroft had been so eager to secure her as his puppet, although the term was inadequate in the extreme, for the moment she and her dæmon had walked through the doors there was a different woman before the room to the one who had burned the rubber of her tires on the streets of London, and charismatically chided him in the flat from John’s chair. This woman was one he could read; her bearing was upright but relaxed, her hair formal but loose, her dress elegant but eye catching – all indicators of her seriousness and propriety, both of which would appeal to the more reserved members of the voting public, but with concessions to a warm and fresh personality, which would appeal younger voters. Her walk was no longer sensuous, but business-like for all its elegance, her steps brisk though relaxed, the change instantly transforming her figure from one of exotic allure to simple biological fact. Her smiles were genuine, though faintly reserved, and even when she laughed with diplomatic unaffectedness her eyes remained alert and watchful, and her expression kind and intelligent. Sherlock had to admit, she was something of an artist. Her palette was her personality, body language, and the way she dressed; her canvas was her body. In terms of artistry, she was comparable to Rembrandt, Titian, Michelangelo, and Da Vinci – her ability to construct a perfect reflection of an individual nearly flawless.

After a few more moments’ observation, he and Raiserra turned away, returning to their task with the relived satisfaction that they did not have to perform such a charade every time they entered a room of important people.

 

It was not until all of the important business that the gala and ostensibly been arranged for had been concluded, that Ariadne and her dæmon sought out Sherlock and Raiserra. The consulting detective was standing at one end of the hall, leaning with a decidedly bored expression against a pillar with Raiserra in his arms.

At their approach Raiserra perked up a little, and peered over her human’s arm down at Atalias who had taken up a seated position by the pooling fabric of Ariadne’s dress about her ankles, looking like a haughty golden statue between the two humans. Ariadne stood in the silence that Sherlock did not break, gazing out at the people in the room.

“You know Mycroft stopped all the cases from coming to you,” she said eventually, still gazing out at the room. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, but preserved his silence. “I believe there were a couple of cases that one Detective Inspector Lestrade was particularly desperate to have your help with…but Mycroft convinced him that it wouldn’t be a good idea to get you involved in anymore of the Yard’s cases since the Moriarty affair.”

Sherlock’s expression became disgusted, although he noted with faint interest that she had said _Moriarty_ instead of _Richard Brook_.

“Found out anything interesting from this evening?” Ariadne asked after a pause.

“Well,” said Sherlock after a long drawn out silence, “that depends on what you call interesting.” He was feeling somewhat annoyed due to Mycroft’s interference, although he supposed it _was_ to be expected, still; he had been the cause of more than a month’s worth of unforgiveable boredom. “I could tell you that a number of the people who have pledged their support to your party are actually being paid to do so by various members of the other parties to find out some of your future policies so they can release them first and gain more favour from the public. Or I could tell you that one of your deputies is sleeping with your secretary, who, by the way, is pregnant and trying to hide it as she figures out who the father was. Or that one of the bouncers on the door was beaten by his father as a child and is on the verge of a nervous collapse because his wife is even worse than his father. Or I could tell you that the reason why you took so long in making your entrance was that you were checking on all the arrangements behind the scenes because you don’t trust any of your subordinates yet. Or that the Tartar delegate has –”

“Taken a fancy to John?” Ariadne finished with an amused quirk to her eyebrow. They both looked at each other for the first time. Sherlock regarded her with a faintly surprised expression. “Credit me with some brains, please, Sherlock, or we’ll get nowhere in this,” she raised her eyebrows slightly. Sherlock held her gaze for a moment, before returning to his perusal of the room.

“That was the most obvious one to pick,” he replied, attempting his usual bored drawl. “Tell me something that half the room doesn’t already know.”

Ariadne tilted her head slightly, her eyes fixed on him and narrowed in faint speculation. Sherlock pretended not to notice, and continued looking out. “The bald man in the north corner talking to the older woman in the feathered dress,” Ariadne said without looking. Sherlock gazed over at the pair. “Her son,” Ariadne continued, “adopted out at birth, but reunited about four years ago; they’re currently discussing how best to remove one of their local council members and replace him with a cousin so they get the majority in a vote to build a bypass.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched in very slight acknowledgement of the deduction, although it was clear that he was still a long way from being impressed – he had followed the conversation briefly via lip reading before becoming bored with the contents.

Ariadne gazed back out at the room, and the two stood in further silence for a few more moments, watching as John and the Tartar delegate waltzed about the dance floor.

“You spent the time between my leaving and going to your mother’s researching the suspects Mycroft gave you and also me,” Ariadne said. There was a faint pause.

“And why would I do that?” Asked Sherlock icily. There was no need to clarify which part of the statement the consulting detective had taken a disliking to.

“Because it is your nature,” Ariadne answered after a pause, “and because you could not read me.”

Ariadne did not need to look at Sherlock’s face to feel the irritation that her words had generated. She smiled very slightly.

“Well, if that’s all – we should start on the business.” She said briskly. Sherlock’s annoyance faded as his mind returned to the case in hand. “I do not believe that Moriarty’s replacement is present this evening,” Sherlock snorted faintly, rolling his eyes, but Ariadne ignored the interruption, “but they would be foolish to miss such an opportunity to network with the disguised elite criminals, so I am sure that they have sent at least a representative.”

“No one important is here,” Raiserra said, now settled in her customary place about Sherlock’s neck, “not from the replacement.” Ariadne nodded slightly.

“What about someone minor? We wondered whether you suspected any of the guests to be associates.” Atalias’ voice rumbled up, low and smooth from between the humans, although his expression remained impassive. Ariadne turned her eyes on Sherlock, waiting for his answer.

“There is a man that Mycroft’s files highlighted,” Sherlock said stiffly. “But he is no real threat. He may be connected…but if so it’s only weak. He holds no power.”

“Show me,” Ariadne commanded. Sherlock glanced at her, his expression hard at the order.

“The couple at the table on the east corner of the dance floor. The buzz cut with the bull neck and the boxer dæmon.” Ariadne glanced over to the indicated pair. Her eyes settled on the man briefly.

“Rhodd Bruce and Scarla.” She murmured, nodding faintly. “Hired muscle with a bit more brain than most – used to be a runner for some of the gangs on the wharves. Perfect location for drug smugglers, of course.”

“Yet to receive a conviction,” Sherlock commented dryly. Ariadne caught the sub-textual question that the consulting detective had floated towards her.

“Yes – I made sure of that.”

“You wanted to keep him active for surveillance.” Sherlock’s tone almost had a hint of approval in it. Ariadne nodded.

“He’s just stupid enough to think he cleared the law. But he had connections that I thought were worth investigating. …Mycroft was hard to convince. Apparently falsifying police records is harder than most imagine.” Sherlock smirked slightly.

“Liar.”

“I know.” Sherlock glanced at Ariadne and for once she looked back at him. He analysed her expression for a few mere milliseconds, the unspoken question of how Ariadne knew this hanging between them. Then they both returned to their appraisals of Bruce. “It’s the woman we should be interested in.”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to the man’s partner in mute agreement; a striking woman with high cheekbones and a great curling mass of black hair with a superior expression. She wore a single sleeved dress, a rippling shimmering green, and her dæmon was nowhere to be seen. “Carla Volenta,” Sherlock said.

Ariadne nodded. “Her real name is Darcy Helling, and her dæmon is Nessa.”

“Where _is_ her dæmon?” Ariadne glanced at Sherlock with an expression that was amused enough to irk him.

“Look at the sleeve of her dress, and you might see her.” Sherlock glanced towards the shadows of the deep sleeve, and after a few moments caught the faint gleam of light on the flicker of a black forked tongue.

“A snake.” Raiserra said with a faint hiss.

Ariadne nodded. “I would have a sleeve to hide my dæmon in as well if Atalias was a black mamba.”

Sherlock turned sharply to stare at Ariadne. “That wasn’t in the files.”

Ariadne gave Sherlock an expectant look. “I don’t tell Mycroft everything I know.” She grinned, momentarily showing a flash of the girl he had met at Barts and seen in the flat, not the woman before him. But only for a moment. “I’ve seen Nessa before – usually Darcy isn’t so cautious with her dæmon; most people wouldn’t be able to tell a black mamba from any other snake – in fact they’d probably view a python to be more dangerous simply because of the colouring. But tonight…in a room full of people who might be potential enemies or allies – anyone could be watching,” Ariadne shot Sherlock a wink, “she knows how to play the game.”

“Bruce is a distraction.” Sherlock said, ignoring the wink. “But even she isn’t who we want – you know that, don’t you?” He glanced at her, and Ariadne admitted the fact with a nod.

“Yes. Tonight, she holds the power balance; he’s her puppet. But –”

“– she’s not the replacement.” Sherlock finished.

Ariadne nodded. “It would seem that our new Moriarty has learned a few lessons from their predecessor.”

Sherlock fixed his penetrating gaze on the woman beside him for a moment. “You already knew all this.” He said. Ariadne admitted his statement with a glib nod. Sherlock frowned. “If I am here to identify Moriarty’s replacement, then why wasn’t I informed of these details? Even if Mycroft wasn’t to know; I need to know these things, or there is no point in my being here.” His voice was hard. Ariadne met his gaze evenly.

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” She asked. “You didn’t need me to tell you what I kept from Mycroft, and it would have only taken you the time to see Nessa to know what she was and to draw the appropriate conclusions about Darcy’s character from her.” Ariadne paused for a moment. “Sometimes you can never play your cards too close to your chest.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he smiled thinly. “And you _do_ play your cards close to your chest, don’t you?” He said, his gaze intensifying. “You play so many personalities, so many disguises. There is so much information available about all of them – except for you. Who _are_ you? There is no information about you anywhere; I can’t read your past in your body. Your family are ridiculously normal – yes, I did pay them a visit earlier today – and yet you are nowhere near that. So how is it that a woman appears out of nowhere with the perfect history that is corroborated by every source available except the most important one of all?”

“Which would be?” Asked Ariadne, smoothly.

“You.” Sherlock replied, his eyes boring into hers.

“I am not the replacement, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Ariadne replied, and for the first time a little irritation showed in the shortness of her tone, “and yes, I know you’ve had your suspicions about me on that front, and I know that you haven’t entirely dismissed them yet because you’ve not got sufficient evidence to make up your mind about them either way, but please, don’t even go there. If you think I’ve infiltrated Mycroft’s operations, then you’re wrong. He came to me for help; you know that – he said so himself this morning. Mycroft trusts me – and you know how rare that is. He knows who I am; if you ask him and he tells you his reasons, then you’ll know, but until then you have to trust me. I am not an enemy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock remained staring at Ariadne, whose gaze was just as hard as his own. “Then why so much secrecy?” He asked, unwilling to drop the matter.

Ariadne let out a short exclamation of laughter, rolling her eyes disbelievingly. “We all have secrets, Sherlock. Mycroft’s got more than he should be able to keep in that umbrella of his, and you’ve got your own as well. I am a woman; it’s my prerogative to have secrets.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You can kill people with your bare hands,” he said blandly. “It’s not the sort of secret most women keep.”

Ariadne sighed, not even batting an eyelid. “It’s not the sort of secret most women need to keep,” she replied with the ghost of a smile.

“Your mind and body are trained to fight, Ariadne.” Sherlock said firmly.

Ariadne heaved in a breath, and gazed candidly up at the consulting detective. “Do you really want to play this game, Sherlock?”

He made an indifferent face. “You’ve played your game, it’s time that we play mine.”

Ariadne rolled her eyes a little. “Fine; why don’t we put your tango skills to the test at the same time? You know the Argentinian, don’t you?” She grinned a little at the faint expression of annoyance that flitted across Sherlock’s face.

“Very well,” he replied stiffly.

Ariadne’s grin widened, her eyes mischievous, before she walked off to have a word with the DJ. Raiserra exchanged a glance with her human.

“She _can’t_ have deduced that about us,” she said.

Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft probably told her just to annoy us.” Raiserra dropped gracefully to the ground as Ariadne and Atalias returned. Sherlock eyed her dress. “And how do you intend to dance with that?” He asked, eyeing all the fabric pooling about Ariadne’s ankles.

Ariadne regarded the fabric as well with a faint smile. “It’s towards the end of the evening, I might have had a few drinks – even a Prime Minister must let their hair down,” she replied, bending and taking a corner of the train’s hem and bringing it up with her. “Our hands may have to be held a little lower than normal, though.” Sherlock regarded the already generous expanse of leg that Ariadne was already baring with a raised eyebrow.

“Quite. And Atalias?”

“I don’t dance,” the dæmon replied lowly “It would not be proper, for a Prime Minister; and this is improper enough as it is.” He bared his teeth in what Sherlock was fairly sure was a grin. Raiserra let out an amused little chirr, sitting beside the lion dæmon.

The music struck up, and a number of couples in the room appeared to be sufficiently acquainted with the dance to take to the floor. Sherlock extended a hand, which Ariadne took, and together they walked out onto the dance floor.

The music was slow, and Ariadne and Sherlock began standing separated by a good metre of space. Then, a chord was struck, and they moved in perfect synchronisation – executing the same gesture in opposite directions.

“How to do you know Mummy?” Sherlock asked as they continued the dance, Sherlock pacing back and forth, each time drawing slowly closer to Ariadne, their eyes locked.

“Family connections,” Ariadne replied. “We go a long way back.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at the words, but said nothing. Together they circled each other, the music slowly beginning to build in tempo, and their dance with it.

“And that made you get involved in this case?” He asked as she made to move away, grasping her around the upper arms and drawing her back into his chest. “I know it wasn’t because of duty; you’re not that sort of person,” he whispered, his mouth momentarily beside her ear.

Then they spun apart again, and the music at last reached the beat and pace that their dance had been waiting for. Ariadne kept her eyes locked on Sherlock’s as their legs began a series of complicated flicks and manoeuvres, weaving in and out of each other so quickly that it seemed they would catch each other’s legs. “I do have personal connections with the matter,” she replied with a tone of forced distance that Sherlock instantly picked up on. His lips twitched.

“Mycroft was surprised that you took it on.” He said, musingly. “He doesn’t know why you agreed.” Ariadne made no reply, but the hard glitter in her eyes was answer enough, and they broke apart momentarily before coming back together once more. “It must be personal indeed.” Ariadne met Sherlock’s amused eyes, and the expression in them warned him not to press her further on the matter, as did the sudden firmness of her grip on him. Sherlock did not need to; he had enough information to be going on for the moment, and a rich flood of possibilities had begun to swirl in his mind like tea poured into a cup.

“Well?” Ariadne asked at his prolonged silence as she drew her foot in a slow semi-circle behind her. “What have you deduced from me then?” Sherlock raised a brow. They began to travel across the room, gliding as though on castors, their footwork neat and precise and dangerously fast, almost teasing as first one gave ground, then the other.

“You have perfected the art of imitating others; you have a good number of personas that you can display. You hide behind them; they’re your shields against something – just like your love of fast cars; they’re your escape. And you’ve had your whole life working on them, perfecting them. Because whatever it is that you’re hiding from has been stalking you since then. Ever since you realised that Atalias wouldn’t settle. And the two of you have a very strong bond; when you’re more like yourself – when you were at Baker Street – you like physical contact. You’ve had bad experiences, maybe, but your personas are so complete that you manage to fight it. Your right hand twitches and his left ear flicks when it gets hard. Your parents seem nice enough, and you haven’t had a bad childhood – so it had to be something external that happened when you were a child or else you wouldn’t be able to control the urge to touch each other. You’ve changed from what you were; whatever it was that involved your sister’s death changed you,” Sherlock shrugged; “maybe Atalias was involved.

“Your family have known Mummy for a long time, but I’ve never heard of any of you, so you’ve got strong connections with witches; your family probably knew Mummy before I was born, perhaps you are part witch yourself. If you are, it can’t be directly, or you’d be living with the clan.” Ariadne twitched an amused eyebrow. “Your values are old fashioned – maybe that’s why Mycroft trusts you: loyalty, protection for a greater good, sacrifice. And you’ve been preparing for something most of your life; your training, the way your mind works, all of it. Whatever it is that you hide from. But your family don’t know, do they? Your parents never knew about this resolution that you made; you didn’t want to worry them.” Their legs had begun to move even faster now, a series of darting flicks that confused and mesmerised the eye, and they were holding onto each other closely, face to face, barely separated by the air between them. “But you haven’t encountered your final goal yet, not yet, but you’re very close. You have a secret buried very deep – it drives you. That’s why you did this for Mycroft. And you are willing to do whatever it takes to achieve what you need.”

The music abruptly slowed, and they both froze for a moment, breathing hard. Then, as the tempo swirled once more, they began to move with slow grace across the floor. Ariadne’s expression had remained largely impassive as Sherlock fired off his deductions. “And that is all?” She asked. Sherlock frowned, his expression affronted. He knew what he had uncovered about Ariadne to be true, and yet she was singularly unimpressed. Clearly he had been spending too much time around John.

“For the present.” He replied haughtily. “Could you do better?” He asked.

Ariadne’s eyes flicked up to Sherlock’s, and an unsettling grin was curving her mouth as the music began to increase in tempo once more. “Oh, you really shouldn’t have asked that.” She purred as their footwork started to increase in speed and complexity once more. “You always wear suits – indicates an orderly personality, smart too, but the jackets tend only to have one button at the front and narrow lapels; hence quite modern, you like being up-to-date. This is reinforced by your use of technology – the latest mobile and laptop, and complete laboratory equipment; your work requires precision, and you demand that of yourself and your implements. You like to look clean and sharp – attention to professionalism and image; you know how to make an impression on people. In fact you enjoy making an impression on people. But it also shows that you dislike clutter in yourself and in the things that matter.”

Sherlock’s expression remained severely unimpressed. To be sure her deductions were more impressive than John’s, but they were not as intrusive as his had been. Ariadne was not finished, however.

“The slender figure indicates two things – one, you’re active, don’t like to be still for too long, and two, hints at unhealthy habits – drug use, lack of sleep and nourishment. The idea of an active personality is also indicated by the fabric of the suits you wear – which are thin and flexible, allowing for easy body movement, but not too good for the cold; hence your coat, which is large enough again to allow for ease of motion, but warm enough for this climate. Your fair skin backs up the idea of drug use, although that could also be explained by the lack of sun – however the inside of your arm has small scars that can only be made by a needle, with multiple puncture wounds around the median cubital vein in the crook of your elbow. You’re too young and too healthy to have required that many shunts in your arm recently, and in any case, shunts are usually inserted at the wrist or the back of the hand, and the scars are a mixture of silvery and healed, slightly brown and half-healed, and faintly pink hence recent – therefore it is an on-going occurrence.”

This deduction, Sherlock had to admit, was almost on par with those he made daily. He had to concede; she had sharp eyes. And still Ariadne continued.

“The wrinkles across your forehead and at the corners of your eyes indicate that frowning and eyes narrowed in thought or inspection are your most common expressions, and smile lines are faint, although they do exist. This could indicate a profession that requires a lot of thought and close examination, or perhaps you don’t get along well with most people. Given what I’ve seen; I’d say both.” Ariadne grinned infuriatingly. “Your hands are slender, the fingers long and dextrous; used to handling pipettes, finely tuned lab equipment and syringes, and don’t shake when a panserbjørne enters the room – hence you’ve got incredibly good nerves, you’re hard to surprise or scare, and you have an interest in unusual things.

“You like to turn up the collar of your coat and wear scarves – indications that you’re used to something being around your neck; your dæmon. Such a position indicates a strong personal bond between you, and a need for physical contact. This might be explained by a bad past experience, perhaps in childhood, involving Raiserra straying too far and getting into difficulties that you were prevented from stopping.” Sherlock stiffened slightly, and beside Atalias on the edge of the dance floor Raiserra’s fur fluffed a little. Ariadne continued however. “Raiserra – _Lutra Lutra_ , a European Otter, and a colour variant; indicative of your own unconventionality. She is black – a colour symbolically associated with concealment and the unknown, but also self-control and resilience, and the colour also aids camouflage for work in the shadows. European Otters are territorial and live alone for the most part. They hunt at night.”

The music stopped. Ariadne and Sherlock stepped apart, and remained staring at each other as a new song began to play. It was only the arrival of their dæmons that jolted them out of the crackling communication that had begun between their eyes.

Sherlock stooped and scooped up Raiserra, and swept off, Ariadne and Atalias following, their expressions faintly amused, although pensive.

 

“We didn’t know you knew how to dance!” Exclaimed John the moment an implacable looking Sherlock and Raiserra returned to them. Histali yelped in agreement.

“We thought you would have deleted it.” She added.

Sherlock coughed slightly. “There is some information that Mummy makes sure we don’t delete,” replied Raiserra with a faint sniff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An appallingly long hiatus, I know; please try to forgive me. As a peace offering, this chapter was long, so I hope you enjoyed it :)  
> In the intervening time since the previous chapter, you might be cheered to know that I have figured out the villains in greater detail than before. Always a good thing.
> 
> Please do comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :)  
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	6. Unhealthy Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne appears at 221B only to discover one or two of the unhealthy habits Sherlock and John have fallen into...

John and Histali were relieved when they left the gala in the limousine that Ariadne called for them; as the evening had drawn to a close their anxieties and anticipation had grown about being dragged through midnight London, but it appeared that Sherlock had no interest in a night city jaunt. For all that they appeared to have had a moderately successful evening, Sherlock and Raiserra seemed less than happy about returning home by the car for some reason or other, and Sherlock had sunk into one of his surly moods. Ariadne and Atalias saw them off, explaining that they were remaining behind to take care of a few prime ministerial duties, and that they were welcome to keep the suits.

The ride was a quiet one. John knew better than to pry into Sherlock’s thoughts when he was in such a mood, but he was fairly sure that it could be accounted to whatever had passed between him and Ariadne during their dance.

 

On returning to the flat, John and Histali went to have a shower. When they came back into the lounge it was to find Sherlock stretched out on the sofa staring at the ceiling, his hands on his chest, Raiserra curled on his stomach.

“Sherlock, it’s nearly two,” John said tiredly, rubbing at his squinty eyes as Histali yawned, her fur on end after the hairdryer.

“Thinking,” Sherlock replied curtly.

John sighed, and went upstairs to bed, Histali’s claws clicking on the wood of the stairs.

Sherlock and Raiserra remained where John had left them for a good hour, turning over the evening’s events in their minds. Ariadne kept interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts, however, and eventually he gave himself over to what it was that was drawing him to her so. It did not take him long to realise that the one fact that needled him most was the statement she had so glibly mentioned; _because you cannot read me_. Her infuriating soft smile hovered in his mind, but not merely because of the annoyance it caused him.

Frustrated he closed his eyes once more, placing his clasped hands together, the tips of his fingers brushing against his chin. He had stored a good number of the images and information he had seen when first researching Ariadne earlier in the day, and even some videos, creating a new room in his mind palace for her, and now he returned there, cycling through the data and analysing it all in minute detail, straining to uncover more about her from it.

By the conclusion of his investigation he was still dissatisfied, but he had a little more information that he had begun with.

She and Atalias were an oddity – that was beyond dispute. But Atalias’s strange abilities aside, their very conduct was a curiosity. When masked and in public the level of control they displayed over their reactions and behaviour was greater even than that which he and Raiserra exercised. Yet when at liberty to act as they chose, both, particularly Atalias, were excessively demonstrative, almost childlike in the level and richness of their expression. It was confounding. Neither he nor Raiserra had ever been prone to spectacles of affection or emotion, it was merely the way they were, and yet by all accounts Ariadne and Atalias thrived on releasing their untapped feelings. It only served to make the control they wielded over themselves all the more formidable, and so too that which had caused them to gain such prodigious skills.

Sherlock wondered over what it was that had shaped them into what they had become, and deliberated asking Mycroft. Ariadne’s body and mind were trained to the level that might be expected of an agent from MI5 or MI6, but there were other skills that she held in her arsenal that went above and beyond those most secret agents might have, though he was yet to find out the true extent of them. Certain things could be guessed at from the way she moved and reacted to things however, and it was a concern that a woman capable of becoming one of the world’s best hired killers, if she so chose, was able to hide so much from him. The question of whether she had been involved in any of his previous cases idly crossed his mind, quickly followed by the even more curious question of whether or not he would be able to trace a murder to her. But such speculations were irrelevant, and he dismissed them in favour of more profitable considerations.

Once again, there was a strong possibility that Mycroft might hold answers, or at least some information regarding such matters, but Sherlock knew that his brother only ever divulged the secrets he knew when he was absolutely pressed to, and there was little he could do that might prove an adequate vice to crack Mycroft’s silence on such a matter as yet. It irked him that Ariadne had greater access to those of his brother’s secrets than he did, but that could be remedied with time.

There too lay another conundrum waiting to be solved. Mycroft owed debts to no one unless he could help it, and yet it was clear that there was some long standing obligation between him and Ariadne that would never be assuaged. There were few people that Mycroft ever showed deference to, and it was rarely of his own volition. Yet the manner in which he had treated Ariadne at Baker Street had been exceedingly restrained…almost to the point of being apologetic, despite the fact that she appeared to have forgiven him. It was fascinatingly curious. But not something he would be able to wring out of Mycroft with any ease, if at all.

Key to the puzzle was, of course, Atalias. Sherlock felt sure that if he knew what had led to the dæmon’s inability to settle, large sections of the many tiered case would fall into place – for there _had_ to be something that tied Ariadne’s past to the case. Although it was an interesting hypothesis, he did not believe that Atalias had come to be as he was naturally. No such occurrence as a dæmon that could not settle had ever been documented, and if it had, Sherlock was confident that he would have heard about it. With Atalias’s state one a result of human intervention as a factor, Sherlock know that there was nothing else that might influence Ariadne to become so heavily involved in such a matter, particularly with such a secret as Atalias threatened by it.

Atalias was an unnatural phenomenon – that he suspected, but could not know for certain without further information – and if it was unnatural then its origins had to be in human activity. He did not know of any experiments – legal or illegal – that had or were being undertaken that might result in such a disturbing singularity however, but resolved to refresh his knowledge of activity in the scientific community relating to dæmons and Dust, and instantly seized his laptop to begin.

 

A few days later Ariadne dropped by. Sherlock had been immersed in his work, collating data that related to Darcy Helling and her activities, as well as those individuals he had observed her talking to at the gala, but for all that he had found out, he was yet to uncover who her superior was.

“Mycroft mentioned you were having trouble,” Ariadne said by way of explanation as she walked in, Atalias fluttering ahead in the form of a Rainbow Bee-eater.

Sherlock glanced up from John’s laptop where he was working at the table with an unimpressed frown, staring interestedly at Atalias for a few moments. “I would not say _trouble_ ,” he replied stiffly, getting up and striding past her to the wall above the sofa which was covered in news clippings, photographs, and maps relevant to the case.

“How did you get in, by the way?” asked John as he came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of toast.

Sherlock frowned at the interruption, but was ignored by Ariadne who was watching Atalias with a vaguely amused expression as he zoomed in annoying circles around Raiserra’s head, the otter dæmon stoically ignoring him.

“I would like to say that Mycroft gave us a key just to annoy Sherlock,” Ariadne replied with a laugh, watching Sherlock’s shoulders twitch, “but Mrs Hudson let us in.”

“Ah,” John nodded, walking in a casual circuit around the room and past the desk, leaving the plate of toast beside his laptop as he passed, before strolling over to his chair and sitting down.

Ariadne raised an eyebrow at him, but John shook his head silently with a meaningful glance towards Sherlock as Histali’s tail thumped against the floor.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked imperiously, still regarding the wall.

Ariadne shrugged as Atalias finally desisted his circling, and fluttered up to her shoulder with an amused frog-like series of peeps. “I was bored, I had the day off, I thought I would come around and see you all. Is it a crime?”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to glare at her at the flippant question as John and Histali laughed, and he stalked to the table.

“I thought I might be able to help, Sherlock,” Ariadne said in a gentler tone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking up a piece of toast from the plate John had left there. Ariadne glanced towards the doctor with raised eyebrows, and John shrugged as though to say _it works_.

“I’ll show you around, Ariadne,” John said, springing up from his chair before the silence that had fallen became awkward from Sherlock’s mulishness, “you didn’t get a chance to look around last time.”

“OK, I’d like that,” Ariadne replied, ignoring Sherlock’s snort.

“You’re wasting your time, John,” Sherlock called after them as they went into the stairwell, unable to help but have the last word; “Mycroft would have shown her the schematics for Baker Street ages ago.”

There was really very little to see beyond the main sitting room, kitchen, and bathroom (they hadn’t thought it wise to test Sherlock’s already thin patience with a tour of his bedroom), and on the second floor there was only John’s room.

There they settled, however, Ariadne leaning interestedly out of the window that overlooked the roof and the rest of London, while Atalias zipped in and out above her head.

“Is that the only way Sherlock will eat?” she asked, frowning as she pulled her head back in.

John shrugged, and Histali’s tail drooped. “Sort of.” He brightened a little. “But he’ll drink tea…and raid Mrs Hudon’s fridge for desserts. She tried putting a lock on it once, but it only made him take a few seconds longer. And he does eat more willingly when he’s not on a case.”

“John.” Ariadne said, giving John an expectant glance that made him feel distinctly comfortable. “You’re a _doctor_ ; tea, toast, cake, and tartlets are hardly a balanced diet.”

John sighed heavily. “He refuses to eat, almost categorically. If you bring it up with him he’ll just say that it slows him down. Something to do with energy being used for digestion rather than thinking – which technically is true,” he sighed heavily again, and Histali licked his hand comfortingly.

“Well what _does_ he eat when he’s not on a case?”

John grinned sheepishly. “We tend to live off takeaways, to be honest. Takeaways, toast, and maybe a boiled egg – you’ve seen the kitchen; it’s hardly suitable to eat in, let alone cook.”

Ariadne sighed in assent. She pursed her lips as Atalias circled her ankles on the floor as a Eurasian Lynx.

“Penny for them?” asked Histali, butting Atalias in the shoulders with her nose.

“It’s something we’re going to have to fix,” the dæmon replied. His human nodded sternly.

John snorted as Ariadne crossed to the door. “You aren’t serious?”

She turned. “I’m deadly.”

John swallowed.

“Don’t let Sherlock know then,” Histali said, grinning around John’s knees.

Atalias returned the toothy smile, “Oh, we won’t. Trust us.”

John and his dæmon exchanged a glance, then shrugged. If nothing else, it would be interesting to watch.

“So how does a Prime Minister end up bored anyway?” John asked as they tramped back downstairs.

Ariadne laughed. “Surprisingly easily. I don’t have to most things – what do you think ministers are for? And even they don’t really need to know too much; the reports get written for them by the people in their departments who actually know things, and then they just read them out. Of course, I’m more of a figurehead than most, what with the operation Mycroft’s running – he has a whole host of advisors and algorithms to decide what I do. It’s mind-numbing, but it’s the only way we can go on while maintaining public majority for as long as we need to.” Ariadne sighed and shrugged. “Such is the life of a politician. The plus side is that I do at least get most of my time to myself, supposing I can find a discreet way to occupy it.”

“I don’t know how discreet helping Sherlock will be,” John replied warningly with a smile.

Ariadne grinned. “I rather hoped that might be the case. Come on – I’ve got a plan, and doubtless Big Ears is getting antsy about what we’re doing up here.”

John stifled a guffaw of laughter as Histali rolled on the floor of the landing with amusement.

 

As they re-entered the lounge, Sherlock ignored them, maintaining an expression of extreme disinterest that was slightly ruined by Raiserra peeping at them over his lapel. Ariadne grinned at John with a theatrical roll of her eyes, and went into the kitchen to inspect the contents.

Truth be told, there was little that a judicious clean and proper segregation of scientific and cooking equipment wouldn’t easily achieve. The vast majority of the scientific paraphernalia took the form of relatively innocuous glass instruments dispersed across the table and benchtops and in the cupboards, with the odd Bunsen burner or blow torch abandoned on the draining board amongst the tea things, although chemicals and other dubious materials had been interspersed elsewhere.

The fridge was another matter, however. Biohazard bags were everywhere, filled with thawed out thumbs and squidgy intestines, and a number of jars of berry jam were misleadingly labelled. A row of individually wrapped kidneys sat upright in the egg compartment, an umbilical cord wrapped around a nearby pat of butter, and what appeared to be skin grafts laid out in the cheese tray. Smoked kippers seemed to have been used to index an album of vacuum sealed livers beneath, propped up on one side with a jar of eyeballs. A hand, long since separated from its owner, held an open tub of yoghurt in one corner, and the fingers of what was presumably its partner had fallen into a tray of lasagne, trailing in the sauce and mince, the cling film of which had been disturbed along one side. Ariadne tutted. She pulled out the drawer of the freezer compartment only to be confronted with an unpackaged head packed with bags of frozen peas and potato wedges, before shoving it shut.

The lower cupboards of the kitchen units served as a pantry, and seemed to have largely avoided becoming storage compartments for chemicals, but there were patches that looked suspiciously like mould on the shelves in places, and in the dark back corner of one mushrooms had sprouted. They were filled with an assortment of incongruous items; a large glass jar of pickled onions that ought to have been in the fridge, bags of crisps and pork scratchings, a open jar of peanut butter still with a knife sticking out, unlabelled tins, a half-eaten tray of chocolate hobnobs, and a lump of Swiss cheese with a white and blue beard.

Ariadne leant back. She could see the haphazard kind of organisation that had taken place, even if it did mean that what appeared to be a range of embalming chemicals were intermingled on a shelf with bottles of vinegar, Lea and Perrins, and other condiments, it was just a pity that separating foodstuffs from chemicals and biohazard material hadn’t been a priority. It was completely Sherlock.

Sherlock’s attempted indifference did not last very long. The clunk of the microwave door opening, and Ariadne’s various noises of interest and disapproval drew him from his consideration of the wall to make a nonchalant pass by the kitchen on his way to the desk.

Ariadne was inspecting the bowl she had taken from the microwave, and glanced up at him as he passed.

“Eyeballs?”

“It’s an experiment.”

“Regarding microwave radiation burns?”

Sherlock paused in frank astonishment, exchanging the barest flicker of a glance with Raiserra. “Yes, actually.”

Ariadne nodded interestedly, tilting the bowl from side to side. “Just concerning the conjunctivitis and cataracts that can be caused, or on body parts in general?”

“Both.”

She glanced around. “You don’t have a biohazard bin?”

Sherlock blinked. “We do,” he pointed at the ordinary bin, visible as it hung out from the open cupboard door underneath the sink.

“No, it’s not.” John marched in, his usual expression of mixed disapproval and patient suffering in full force. “Sherlock puts biohazard stuff in it, and I’m the one who has to take it to Barts or work to dispose of it safely.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. “So that’s where it all goes.”

“What did you think happened to it?”

Sherlock shrugged and waved a hand. “I don’t know. I assumed it just sort of disappeared.”

John snorted. “It’s like living with a child,” he muttered to Ariadne, who couldn’t help but grin as she put the bowl back in the microwave.

She wandered over to the other bench, opening cupboards, and pulling out drawers, ignoring the test tubes in the cutlery drawer. She did recoil retching when she opened the bread bin, however. “Ugh! What _is_ that?”

Sherlock and John approached, John reeling back as the stench hit him. Raiserra let out a pleased whistle from Sherlock’s shoulders, pressing at them. Her human remained unperturbed by the smell of rotting flesh, and smiled with pleasant surprise, reaching in and pulling out the ziplock bag, and its offensive contents.

It was a shame that the bag hadn’t been properly sealed.

“My heart! I was wondering where I’d left this!” he marched over to the fridge and stuck it in the salad drawer.

“Sherlock, the bread bin is _not_ the correct place for human hearts!” John spat, peering into the bin, and groaning at what he saw. “Especially not when it’s already full of jammy dodgers!” he seized the packet, making for the bin with them.

He had to dodge Sherlock’s reaching arm, in all probability rescuing his friend from severe food poisoning as he dumped the lot into the rubbish, and tied the bag handles together firmly.

“And there is no way that heart is staying in our fridge.”

“John, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock was frowning impatiently, mildly put out by the disposal of the biscuits.

“He’s right, Sherlock,” Ariadne interjected to the relieved exasperation of John. “That thing is beyond use to anyone, except maybe as a dog’s chew toy.”

“Clearly neither of you have any imagination, then,” Sherlock snarled, standing in front of the fridge, and resolutely blocking John’s access.

Ariadne folded her arms, one eyebrow rising with unimpressed expectation. She glanced over at Atalias, who had been watching the interchange with an irate Histali from the doorway.

“Is it really necessary to settle the matter like this, Raiserra?” he asked smoothly, rising from his hind quarters and padding across the lino, slowly increasing in size as he did so until he was his official lion form. His tufted tail twitched slightly.

He and Raiserra were staring at each other with an intensity that bordered on something quite different which Sherlock felt to be more threatening than any form a dæmon might take. They weren’t glaring at one another, but there was a charge and a crackle in the air that everyone could feel. Histali’s fur had fluffed up on end, and the blood seemed to tingle in the humans’ bodies.

The tension rose in concentration, spiking higher and higher like an agitated heartrate on an ECG monitor, and John felt distinctly out of place in the situation, outside of the interchange and all true comprehension of it. Sherlock and Ariadne were perfectly calm, each regarding the other’s dæmon as one might a favourite pet. Ariadne was smiling very slightly, as was Sherlock, but John sensed each was doing so for very different reasons.

Then Raiserra turned her head away, unconcernedly grooming herself between the toes on her paw, and Sherlock moved away from the fridge, the charge dissipated like the backwash of the tide.

Ariadne smiled, “Jolly good. I’ll be back soon, then.”

John was left scrambling, feeling as though he had missed out on a conversation that had taken place right in front of him without his even noticing. “Sorry?”

“Ariadne’s going out to the shops, John,” Sherlock explained with his customary tone of condescending boredom, sauntering out of the kitchen, and back into the lounge. “Two packets, please,” he added.

Ariadne shot John an amused grin over her shoulder, but did nothing to explain before she slipped out the door.

John glanced between the consulting detective now playing violin in the lounge, and the empty doorway that had been occupied by the Prime Minister, confused, then exasperated, and finally resigned. They were as bad as each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH IT'S BEEN AGES  
> Sorry...  
> BUT IT'S HERE :D  
> And it's longish :D
> 
> Umm, not really sure what to say, I hope you find it funny? I certainly amused myself writing the kitchen description. The next few chapters are more about building the relationship between the group than furthering the case in any dramatic way. So yes, look forward to some amusing stuff. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it :D
> 
>  
> 
> Please give Kudos and/or comment :) Tell me what you like or don’t like :) Questions and speculations are always welcome :D As is incomprehensible flailing if that's what you go in for :)  
> Also, if you like this story, or any of my other ones, and you want access to sneak previews on chapters that I'm working on, you can Like my Facebook page, and Follow my Twitter or Tumblr :)  
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